Another Chance
by Viva Raine
Summary: A teenaged Obi-Wan comes down with a mysterious illness, that may be fatal. Cue Obi-Wan Qui-Gon father/son bonding, angst, hurt/comfort and fluff.
1. Chapter 1

Happy Wednesday night, y'all :D Fun fact: this was the the third fanfic I ever wrote. Another fun fact: if you leave a (nice ;P) comment I will literally be happy about it for days. Last fun fact: almonds work to relieve headaches. This is not a joke - you're welcome ;) Pretty sure it's obvious from the summary, but this is NOT slash.

Anyways, enough fun facts, enjoy the story :)

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An alarm blared warningly in a chamber of the Healing Halls of the Jedi Temple, and an apprentice physician seemed to appear at the side of the bed. A fourteen-year-old Padawan writhed in the flood of white sheets, shivering violently despite the fact that his temperature was dangerously high. The beads of sweat that tracked down his face mingled with the teardrops that trickled from closed eyes as his illness subjected him to the cruelest of nightmares. Though it was shaking slightly from anxiety and fatigue, a warm, steady hand gently brushed away the tears and a strong, unwavering presence calmed the sick Padawan. The young healer turned to the Jedi who hadn't left his Padawan's side since the night he'd fallen ill, four days ago.

"Master Jinn," the young healer began in a tone that Qui-Gon distinctly disliked from the start. She laid a hand tentatively on the apprentice's forehead, but immediately drew it back as if scalded. "His fever keeps spiking; it's dangerously high, but completely inconsistent, and although we've checked our records thoroughly, we can find no archived illness that matches your Padawan's symptoms. So, besides keeping him as cool as we can, and seeing that he stays hydrated, I'm afraid there's not much we can do for Obi-Wan."

Absently, the Jedi Master marveled at the teenager's ability to remain politely unattached. How a sixteen-year-old girl could watch a young Padawan suffer like his was, and simply report in the calmest of tones that she could do nothing to help him was completely beyond him. He was positive that should their roles be reversed, he would be nearing shamefully close to tears. In fact, even in his current position, he felt rather too emotionally unbalanced for his liking.

"You just want a fourteen-year-old to simply tough out a hundred five-degree fever that is causing him to get sick every three hours and giving him nightmares so bad they scare _me_?" The healer seemed to have missed the note of incredulity in the Master's tone.

"Uh huh!" She nodded brightly, appearing incredibly relieved that Qui-Gon understood. "He should be better in at least a few days." Her voice was low, as not to disturb Obi-Wan, who had admitted he had a nasty headache, but there was still a sense of chirping in her tone as she scampered away. _They should assign her Council duty, _Qui-Gon reflected darkly as he watched her skip into the medical supplies room. A second idea caused a wry smile to twist itself onto his face, despite himself. _Or, better yet, maybe cleaning out Mace Windu's quarters for a month? I can guarantee there'll be no chirpiness left by then! _

A moan from his Padawan dragged Qui-Gon out of his brilliant brainstorming as he squeezed strength and love and reassurance into Obi-Wan's hand as the teenage Jedi began to dream again, his feverish heart revealing his deepest fears and desires, and his connection to the Force fluctuating, uncontrolled as it spilled out the past and the future.

_A ragged voice reached out, hoarse with unbearable pain, "Train him… He is the Chosen One…" it begged. The last breaths of ancient wisdom, never to be wasted on trivial matters, "There… is… another… Sky…walker," it rasped. Lava, red and hot, as two nearly identical blue lightsabers clashed as enemies. "I HATE YOU!" a purely evil voice raged, sounding more venomous than a deadly serpent. A clipped, Coruscanti accent, lower, older, sadder, but sounding so much like his own. "Anakin's the father, isn't he?" he asked, as if that would signify the end of the known galaxy. A black shape so dark it was its own shadow that it cast on the universe, forever tainting the galaxy to its tragic, unknown fate. "Your powers are weak old man," a hiss blew in his hear through an angular oxygen mask, playing into a Jedi Master's secret fear. "You are weak… you are weak… you are weak…"_

"… _you are weak… you are weak…" _He began to envision his greatest fear. _A rugged Jedi's boots were planted firmly on one side of a canyon, his rebelliously long, grey-streaked hair blowing in the ominous wind as he drew his dazzling green lightsaber. A tiny, terrified Padawan cowered on the other edge, teetering, unbalanced, the braid that, to him, symbolized his whole existence, his entire purpose in life, tugging and dancing tauntingly, like it might fly away at any second. In the older Jedi, there was only calm. Strength. Detachment. Wisdom. Obedience… everything that the young one aspired to. In the Padawan… insecurity. Emotion. Love. Curiosity. Independence… everything that the code he strove to live up to forbade. He was drowning in guilt, in shame, in despair. The rift between the once inseparable was increasing rapidly, and the Padawan grew desperate. "I am sorry, Master!" he cried, stubbornly refusing the tears that had drawn him here in the first place. "I am sorry! Please! I am sorry, Master!" The older Jedi, in perfect conformance to the Order to which he was loyal to, allowed no reaction. No softening. No love. "You have failed me, Padawan. You are weak… you have failed me… you are weak." _

"No!" Obi-Wan shrieked, gasping for breath against the vise his fever had wrapped around his chest and startling awake with such intensity that the IV wire slipped out of its place and caused the master healer to rush into the room. Tears tracked down the Padawan's face, and he clung to Qui-Gon's arm like it was his only chance of survival. Confused and concerned, the Togruta healer ran a skilled and gentle hand through the patient's hair, tenderly coaxing him to fall back onto his bed, with more compassion and personal kindness than the apprentice seemed to have mastered. Using the other hand, she typed a code into the computer screen by Obi-Wan's bedside and accessed his medical information and the monitoring of his current illness.

"I'm Healer Viala," the woman nodded. "His heart rate is considerably higher," she informed the boy's master, a fact Qui-Gon had already gathered on his own. "Did anything excite him? Or did his fever spike again?" Her tone had a calming effect, convincing anyone who heard her that she knew what she was doing, and she really, truly cared, and Qui-Gon felt his own racing heart begin to slow down.

"Nightmares." Qui-Gon spat out the word like one might the name of a truly incompetent yet unshakeable opponent or one's lifelong enemy. One look at his Padawan, however, twisting in agony beside him, and Qui-Gon's anger had evaporated, leaving only heartbreak and desperation in its wake. "Can't you do anything to help him recover?" He took a deep breath and asked the question that had been weighing down his heart for the last three days, as his Padawan's fever grew worse and worse, that glued him to Obi's bedside and distracted him from every other duty. "… _will_ he… recover?"

The healer hesitated, an uneasy expression on her face, and Qui-Gon felt his heart stop. "I… cannot be sure. We could put him in a very powerful healing trance, that, if effective, will immediately cure his fever."

There was a catch. There had to be, or else they'd have done it long ago. Right? "But…" Qui-Gon prompted, sensing that this was going to be the ugly part.

"But… there is a chance he will never come out of it." She paused to let the Jedi Master absorb the shock, and went on. "I'm afraid… with a fever as high as his… the chances are… very high." It wasn't the first time she'd had to deliver an incurable diagnosis, or face a Master with a death-or-danger option, but it never grew any easier.

Qui-Gon wanted to snatch his Padawan to his chest and yell that no one could touch him, ever again. He wanted to coax the fever into his body instead, to give Obi-Wan even one less day of suffering. He wanted to sink to the floor and sob like a Crecheling, until he ran out of tears or the Temple was flooded. But he was a Jedi, and breaking down was not one of the options. Tentatively, he ran his hand down his beard and braced himself for the answer. "Will he die if you don't?"

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Stayed tuned for chapter two :)


	2. Chapter 2

Well... guess who got their hand slammed in a 100lb sliding van door and couldn't update for like forever... So sorry guys!

Thanks a million to **Hawkmaid, Reyella, **and **Dream Plane **for reviewing, and everyone who favorited/followed! :D

Also, I'm aware that the perspective goes back and forth towards the end... I guess that's what happens when you post fanfiction you wrote a year ago and are too lazy to rewrite it...

_italics _= thoughts

/ = Force bond communication

WARNING: there's a tiny bit of vomiting in this chapter. Nothing serious/graphic at all or a main part, but it's there so I figured might as well do da warnin' thing :P

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With understanding and wisdom Qui-Gon was sure he would never possess, Viala faced him, allowing him to see the tears in her eyes that matched his own, and lowered her mental shields so that he could feel how hard she was trying, and how much she personally cared. It staggered Qui-Gon, but he knew she understood that, too. "The chances are greater than ninety-six percent. If we are to go through with the healing sleep, I suggest we begin now.

He hesitantly nodded his consent, feeling conflicted by a million mental voices, and torn by the tormenting thought that if his Padawan were lost in the Force forever, there would be no blame but his own. In fact, he was sure the entire illness had been his fault from the beginning. If only he'd noticed Obi-Wan's shields were up tight. If only he'd payed more attention to his Padawan. If only… if only… they weren't going to get anyone anywhere, but Qui-Gon couldn't help it… There had been so many warnings, and he hadn't caught any.

********flashback*******

The sunlight was beginning to peek over the skyscrapers of Coruscant's skyline, casting elongated shadows crawling on the floor of Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan's apartment in the Jedi Temple as the Padawan pulled on his dark robe and sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Obi-Wan stumbled into the kitchen, his blanket trailing behind him, still wrapped around his shoulders. "Do you think it's cold, Master, or is it just me?"

"It's just you, Padawan!" Qui-Gon had reassured with a teasing note in his voice. "I was considering turning it down!"

**later that morning**

In a brightly lit room of the Temple, sweating and panting, Obi-Wan deactivated his lightsaber with a flick and smiled, feeling content after a sparring match with his Master, although strangely tired. His head was pounding a little, but he ignored it. After all, a lightsaber match with Qui-Gon Jinn was always exerting. Placing his lightsaber on bleacher-style seats stationed around the perimeter of the room, Obi-Wan leaned his hands on his knees, lowering his head in an attempt to catch his breath. Instantly, the second he dipped his head, the floor tipped and the room spun around him. He stumbled backwards, sinking heavily into one metal seat and with a brief sense of panic, fought the wave of nausea that suddenly threatened to drown him.

Qui-Gon appeared by his side immediately, placing a steadying hand on his Padawan's shoulder and tilting Obi-Wan's chin up so he could look him in the eye. "What's wrong, Padawan? Are you okay?"

Obi-Wan shrugged it off. "I'm fine. I just got dizzy for a second. I guess I need some water."

**mid-day meal**

Master and Padawan shared a table in the Temple cafeteria, Qui-Gon eating heartily, starving after that morning's training session. The rice cakes and vegetables and stew they were serving looked delicious, but Obi-Wan didn't seem appetized in the least; he was staring at his plate, twisting his fork in a pile of beans and raising it to his lips only every so often.

"Aren't you going to eat, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon asked jokingly. His Padawan was always famished, whether he'd eaten five minutes or five days ago. Today, though, seemed to be a different case.

"I _am_!" he protested half-heartedly, aware that it was mostly a lie. "I'm not really that hungry right now."

**late that afternoon**

Qui-Gon entered his apartment, drained from a Council meeting, and exhaustedly let his briefcase of papers clatter to the floor. A Jedi didn't procrastinate, he knew, he was just… _so_ doing it later. His conscience was justified a second later, when a moan reached his ears from the direction of the 'fresher. Hastening down the hallway, he found his Padawan kneeling in front of the toilet, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. Qui-Gon crouched down beside him, but the boy barely acknowledged his presence until he reached for his Master's hand and groaned, "I feel sick."

"I noticed," Qui-Gon remarked drily. "How long have you been like this?"

The Padawan squeezed his hand. "Here? I dunno, maybe ten minutes? How long have I felt sick? Since I got dizzy this morni-"

He broke off and leaned his head over as far as he could, one hand holding his braid out of the way, the other clutching Qui-Gon's as he eventually lost the valiant battle he'd been fighting against nausea since lightsaber class that morning. Qui-Gon, rubbing circles on Obi-Wan's back, marveled that he even had anything left, considering, now that he thought about it, that today hadn't been the first one his Padawan had hardly eaten.

"That's it," he decided, as he felt the feverish heat radiating off the teenager's skin. "I'm taking you to the healers." Qui-Gon had no way of knowing then that the worst sign he'd been given was that Obi-Wan didn't protest.

******flashback over*******

A staggering surge of the Force distracted Qui-Gon from mentally listing everything he'd done wrong, and he glanced up sharply to watch Viala and her apprentice, and one other healer each place a brilliant, pulsing crystal on Obi-Wan's chest. They had mildly sedated him, so that he couldn't resist the healing, and with her eyes still closed, Viala called Qui-Gon over.

"Just hold his hand, Master Jinn. Let him know you're here," she murmured in a low voice of awe and respect. The healing power of the Force was swirling so strongly in the room, they each felt their shields crumbling, the walls in their hearts that were built out of hurt, and shame, and regret, were dissolving into the healing warmth that was the Force. It was magical. Refreshing. Healing. The Force didn't only benefit the people it was called for, Qui-Gon realized for the first time. It was simply _here_, and its sheer healing strength was gently easing the ache off of Qui-Gon's old pains and reaching so tenderly yet so deeply into his heart that tears clouded his vision. The soft voice of Viala told him that she was experiencing this, too. "Can you handle it?" she asked gently. A quick glance confirmed that he was not the only one blinking away unexpected moisture, and he wasn't ashamed of it. This was the Force, the reason they were alive, the reason they could laugh with and love each other, the reason they wanted so desperately to heal Obi-Wan of his mysterious illness.

"I'm alright," he told her, totally unsure of whether it was true or not. He sent waves of love and reassurance and peace to his Padawan, and let the healers work.

Their hands on the crystals, they expelled their fears and emotions into the Force, emptying themselves so that they could support everything in Obi-Wan. Sedated and ill, it was not hard to pass his mental shields that held everything in and reach his thoughts and feelings. Each healer gasped in turn as Obi-Wan's fever raced through their blood, his headache pounded behind their eyes, and his overwhelming emotions of fear and misery and helplessness and horror pierced their hearts. The crystals pulsing reassurance into their hands, and the Force gently swirling through their minds and guiding their actions, the healers, as one, poured every ounce of strength, skill and compassion within themselves into banishing the illness from Obi-Wan's body and calling on the Force to send him healing and recovery.

"Viala, Qui-Gon," the third healer, Lygra, murmured, his voice peaceful, if a bit strained. Viala and the Padawan, Jani, slowly eased the meditation to a close. "His Force signature is weakening. We have to wake him up, fast." He sounded calm enough, but the others in the room knew better, and Viala and Jani immediately plunged back into the Force that was keeping Obi-Wan alive. They pulled him gently, but his mental response was feeble and sluggish, and stronger this time, they called him again, but to no avail. What was close to alarm could be heard in Jani's voice as she turned to Qui-Gon and implored him to help her.

"Call him back, through your bond." Jani instructed.

Qui-Gon looked hesitant, and desperate. "You're healers; you can't do it?"

Jani was determined to remain right. "We're healers; you're his master."

Viala added, with compassion and wisdom that seemed to have no end, "You're like his father, Qui-Gon. Call him home."

Placing both hands on his Padawan's chest, tears brilliant in the dark blue eyes that indeed meant home to Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon reached into the Force, desperation overriding the caution he would have felt any other time. / Please, Obi-Wan, please come back to me! I need you Obi-Wan! Don't go, Padawan, please! Come home, Obi, come home!/

He had never realized before how much the boy meant to him, but he wasn't sure whether it was the fear that he might lose him or the Force's healing power over the deep wound of Xanatos that had made him realize. After all, their relationship so far had been less than enviable. Snappish words yelled, that neither side meant. Trust built, and broken, and shakily rebuilt. But Qui-Gon was sure he had never loved anyone more. This was more than his student. This was his Padawan. This was his _son_.

His true feelings slipped through their bond in time with the tears that slipped down his cheeks. / I need you, Obi-Wan. I love you. I am so proud of you, Padawan. I love you. I love you, my son./

From a million miles away, through a stormy ocean, muffled by frightened clouds, Obi-Wan heard the voice of his Master. /…need y… so proud… you… wan…I… I love you...son!/

Obi-Wan knew he was slipping, his consciousness fading slowly. At first, he had been fine with that. He'd hurt, so much, he'd been so cold, but they'd only made him colder. His head had burned, but they couldn't fix it. He felt blurry and uncertain, but wherever he was, he couldn't feel the pain he'd lived with for what seemed like an eternity. And then, he'd heard his Master call him. He had been so sure Qui-Gon would be glad to get rid of him. No more emotional Padawan. No more lousy student. No more little kid hanging on his robe begging to be loved.

But instead, Qui-Gon was the one begging. He was pleading with his Padawan, and even wherever Obi-Wan was, he could still feel the salty tears slipping through their bond. And wherever he was, he could still feel shocked. _Qui-Gon's _crying _for me? Qui-Gon cares?_! _Qui-Gon _LOVES _me?! _

So Obi-Wan was fighting. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He called on the Force to make him stronger and bring him back to his Master. He had to be with him. He had to tell him. He had to tell him.

"He's coming back!" Lygra exclaimed in shock. He knew he wasn't the only one who had accepted that Obi-Wan was gone. Qui-Gon didn't open his eyes, but a relieved smile cracked through the evident exhaustion on his face. He squeezed the boy's hand comfortingly and continued calling him. Without breaking the stream of consolation and love he was sending at his Padawan, he listened as Viala informed him, "I'm going to sedate him almost as soon as he wakes up, so that he can get right to sleep and finish healing. Is that okay with you?"

A little disappointed that he wouldn't be able to speak to Obi-Wan, but sure that Viala knew what she was doing, he nodded, opening his eyes when he felt the teenager stir. "Obi-Wan?" he called hesitantly. Even though he was conscious, the healing trance could have triggered any number of other mental side effects. But no, he smiled warmly at his Qui-Gon, and melted into his Master's teary embrace.

"M…master…" he whispered contentedly, wincing slightly as Viala jabbed with the sedative needle.

"Oh, Obi-Wan! I was so afraid I'd never-" he broke off abruptly, as his Padawan's feeble voice interrupted him.

"Master…" His eyes were glazed as the sedative ran through his blood, and his voice was slurred sleepily, but Qui-Gon had a feeling that the boy needed to tell him something from the urgent look in the sea-green depths of his eyes that were like stormy twin oceans.

"What is it, Padawan? What do you want to say?"

Obi-Wan settled comfortably into the blankets on his bed, his head cradled peacefully in his pillow as his eyes drifted closed. "I love you too, Master…"

His fingers brushing lightly against his sleeping Padawan's cheek, Qui-Gon smiled softly. Maybe this was just one more illness marking the many that he'd suffer through in life. Maybe this was just life, reminding them that they were, after all, only human. But maybe, just maybe…. this was the Force, giving him and his Padawan just another chance.


End file.
